


cuz darling i’m a trashcan dressed like a bloodbank

by Haelblazer



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Ass Play, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Exhibitionism, Experimental Style, F/M, Framing Story, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hotel Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Outdoor Sex, POV First Person, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Past Tense, Present Tense, Self-Insert, Story within a Story, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haelblazer/pseuds/Haelblazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha wants you to tell him a story: hot, filthy, anything as long as it has you and Castiel. You know he expects a story about you and Cas masturbating while watching Dean. You get more creative. This is your story:</p><p>You and endverse!Cas visit Benny with the blood he's asked you to bring--half from you, half from Cas, blended together; it's apparently a delicacy. The blood you've delivered is also a promise of what he gets after he fulfills his part of the bargain. He won't drink from either of you directly...not yet anyway. What you've brought is an appetizer, something to tide him over while you provide each other with the night's entertainment. He tells the stories, you and Cas...react.</p><p>And Misha  reacts in turn.</p><p>(In which the reader gets Misha all hot by telling a story in which Benny regales endverse!Cas and the reader with stories about what Dean and Castiel got up to in Purgatory, everybody masturbates along, and the blood is flowing freely. Sometimes Benny writes himself into the stories. Because the both of you are Destiel Trash AF. Three layers of self-insert. Self-insert-ception. Gender-neutral reader, nothing but assturbation.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. bloodbank

"Tell me a story."

Misha asks this of you the same way that he’s asked it of you every time. All but the first one, of course. You'd rambled that time, unaware of what you were saying until you recovered from your delirium and fully realized where you were. It had been a delirious accident, spurred on by blood loss and that delicious face hovering above yours, concerned and unfairly attractive for someone wearing a [terrified-gingerbread sweater](http://www.tipsyelves.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/g/i/gingerbread_nightmare_red_sweater.jpg). You'd been laid out in private room, on an examination table or a gurney--hard to tell from the angle at the time and once you were leaving you had other things pulling for your attention. You could see though that there was blood splattered along your lower arm, and that it had sprayed across the front of your shirt. The needle must have fallen loose when you passed out. You started off tired and embarrassed--until you remembered that Misha had been giving blood in the chair beside you; _then_ you realized that you might have bled all over him as well. At that point you were mortified. You might have gotten blood on Misha's gingerbread sweater, never mind if anything had ended up on the man himself.

You found out soon enough that you hadn't spilled blood on anyone but yourself, but you'd spilled a few other things instead, at least metaphorically. And these were things that you never would have wanted anyone to know that you thought about, especially not him. Because when you half-consciously rambled about all of the things you wanted Dean to do to Castiel's face, it was the same face as Misha's face. The lips that you wanted Dean to stick his fingers into, they belonged to Castiel, but they also belonged to Misha. That tongue you imagined as moist and strong when it curved around Dean's fingers to slick them up, the visual in your mind was based on pictures you'd seen of Misha looking like he could do acrobatics with his tongue. In personality, in strength, and in details of style, you always thought as Castiel as something completely different from Misha, but on some purely basic levels they were the same man. To the extent that you fantasized about Castiel, he and Misha might as well have been the same man. Even if the fantasies didn't involve yourself, maybe even more so because sometimes your fantasies were only about Dean and Cas, you wouldn't have wanted him to know this about you. You certainly would never have done something so inappropriate as tell him; at least you wouldn't have if you'd had all of your senses about you.

Who knew how much he'd like hearing you tell him the things that you should never be telling him.

"It's the way you tell it," he'd explained to you when you asked why in the world he'd want to hear you tell him these things. It was never just about it being a dirty story. It's that it was _your_ dirty story. "I like having a look at the nooks and crannies of that mind of yours."

Some part of you is still a little bit weirded out that he thinks of your mind as an english muffin.

When he asks you for a story though, you never take it as a question; it’s hard for anything to sound like a question when you both know you won’t be refusing him anything he’ll ask of you.  (Anything he, for some crazy reason,  wants you to give him.) He has never asked to touch you or for you to touch him, but if you tell your story well enough then you'll be rewarded with one of the greatest sights you have ever seen in your life: Misha Collins pulling his half-hard cock out because he can't take it straining against his pants anymore. He doesn't even touch himself, just sets it free to fill and twitch and respond like it's running wild, nothing for it to react to but your story and the sound of your voice. And you get to watch it happen.

You've come to believe that every part of Misha is hypnotic. Anybody who has made eye contact with him can probably understand why you think this--at least to some extent. Anybody who has watched his cock dance for them has to be a devout believer. You are captivated by this man, and it is in large part because he is somehow captivated by you...or at least by your stories.

He disturbingly reminds you of Metatron when he makes his calm request. It's not the kind of thought that you want to come to mind when you look at him, but it's hard to control your own mind when you're around him. He's wearing a pale pink t-shirt today, one you've seen him in countless times before, and it's wearing so thin that you can see the muscles of his chest outlined through it, despite the dim lights and covered windows. You're completely perving out on him, looking at his nipples through the shirt when he speaks and you're embarrassed by your own behavior, but relieved when you see his knowing smile. You can barely admit it to yourself how much you love him toying with you; it's certainly nothing you could ever say out loud. But the way he knows what he does to you, it's embarrassing and thrilling in equal parts. You are ashamed that you want more and more of it every time.

Your desire for him is written all over your face, and probably your body language--you realize your body is already leaning closer to him and your pupils are probably even wider than the darkened room demands on its own. It's unspoken, but it's clear to both of you that you’ve never been able to deny him anything and you’re not going to start now.

You tell him your story.

* * *

I think I wanted Castiel for myself before I even understood that's what the feeling was. By the time I understood though...he wasn't anything like the stories I'd heard about him. The windblown sex hair, blue tie, and trench coat. The jawline...man, I could carve a bar of soap along that jawline, just cut the bar down into one smooth flared-out curve and use it to stretch Dean open for Cas myself. Honestly, that's one of the first thoughts that ever occurred to me--because every insanely hot thing about Castiel made me think about how much hotter it would be on top of Dean, or inside of Dean, those two together... Everything I'd heard about Cas made me want him for Dean and nobody else. If I had to choose, I'd still probably rather hear second-hand that they'd finger-fucked on top of a pile of scrap in a salvage yard than to have either one of them all for myself. You know how I feel about those two together.

But let's be realistic, it's not a choice that I'll ever have to make. If anything, it'd be a choice for Cas, but based on what I've learned about those two I don't think it's a choice that would come into play at all. For the right person, in the right place, at the right time, Dean and Cas can be very open, however it is that you want to use that word. Dean, he's this complicated mix of private and proud, but he has this sense of people that he just knows who he can draw in, who he can trust, or at least who he can keep under control. For a very lucky person, Dean Winchester is a shamelessly pornographic show-off. Castiel, in every iteration, is incapable of being ashamed of an expression of love, and he just seems... _nourished_ by appreciation. To be allowed a front-row seat, to have that honored position because they know what it does for me to see them?  That has to be ecstasy.

To hear about it from Benny, it sounded like it was worth dealing with everything else in Purgatory, just to be there for that.

* * *

"Benny?" Misha looks suspicious. He knows you too well to expect you to be happy about anyone getting near Cas except for you and Dean. He's underestimated you.

"Benny got to live the dream. That's a vamp after my own heart." You explain. "And if the boys wanted to give him the benefit, who am I to be upset about it? If anything, he was an inspiration."

* * *

Benny and I were a business transaction more than anything. To put it tactfully, a vampire's gotta eat. Much as I wanted to donate on the day we met, the main reason that I passed out is probably because I was all tapped out after giving so much blood for business and pleasure. I didn't have Cas contributing to the cause yet.

But he would be soon...

The delay was something that couldn't be helped really. Cas was all patchouli and pills when I found him--wardrobe some kind of yoga retreat/military mash-up, which I guess makes sense when you consider that his life was a series of drug-infused orgies and fights to near death by that point. It wasn't ideal, but it was basically the closest I was ever going to get to the Castiel I'd heard about all those times I saw Benny. There was no way I could bring blood like that back with me though. There's a lot of risks that I'm willing to take, but offering myself up to a tripped out vampire isn't one of them. So in the beginning, the blood was all mine. But you get to hear the story of the day that Benny finally got to taste a mix from both of us. He got it bagged first--he always got it bagged first--

* * *

"Was the blood still warm?" Misha interrupts you and you should have expected it. He wants your words to stimulate all of his senses. Something so basic, yet it makes you catch your breath when you think about it because it means that Misha wants to feel like he's in that motel room with you. Does he want to be in your place? To be Castiel? Or Benny or Dean? No. To just be in another person's place, he doesn't want something so simple. You reflect on his questions, the ones he's asked each time you've told him your stories, and invariably he wants a glimpse into everybody's head--asking what this moment is like for you, for Benny, for Cas. You understand finally, that Misha wants to feel what it's like to be all of you and to be with all of you. You picture him, briefly, as an omniscient sex god and it seems like the perfect role for him. Maybe next time you'll regale him with a rewrite of season seven, and the both of you can live vicariously through Godstiel. But that is for another day. For now, Misha wants to know if the blood is warm.

* * *

It was mid-December, warmer outside than it could have been, but in no way hot enough to keep a bag of blood as warm as the human body. I felt bad about it, handing the chilled blood over to Benny. It was going to be his first taste of Castiel's blood mixed together with mine and he should have been tasting it at 98.5 degrees or whatever temperature fallen angels had. I could feel the body heat coming off of Cas from a foot away, so they probably ran hot. Maybe it was just Cas. There were always so many special things about Cas.

* * *

"I've always assumed that angels use the metric system." Misha chimes in.

"I don't get--"

"In this case, meters and Celsius."

"Okay...so do you want me to do conversions or do you want me to keep telling you my story so I can get to the part where I'm dipping Cas-blood into my ass?"

"Now that's a tagline I can get behind. Please. Continue."

You decide to just skip ahead.

* * *

Benny kept his eyes closed when he started. He always did and it was perfect. Because I knew that he was putting himself back in that memory, getting every sight and sound right, and telling me what happened so precisely that I could repeat his words to Dean or Castiel and they'd think that I'd been there. For him, it had been all mixed in with aggression and survival, teamwork and some crazy fucked up brand of chivalry that maybe only he and Dean could understand. I think it was our deal that made Benny fully understand what an amazing thing he'd been a part of. In Purgatory.

* * *

The thing is, Purgatory wasn’t ever all running and fighting. Anything you could call free time, Dean spent it looking for that angel or looking for a way out. Sometimes though, there just was nothing for it and we had a bit o’ time to kill—‘specially once we found the angel.

Dean wouldn't let me near the angel, but he loved to let me watch. The boy could put on a show.


	2. trashcan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all just blood, purgatory, and masturbation from here on out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The temptation to reply to those comments, it's so strong! Rather than sabotage my impending victory though, I'm instead putting up the second chapter. The main reason this ended up being 3 chapters instead of 2 is because I added a bunch of Misha interruptions (I got carried away having fun writing him as kind of toned-down Meta!Misha with a sense of play and no filter). I think we can consider the spncoldesthits competition as kind of a patron of the arts, providing motivation to authors to write the little niche fics that may normally have been set aside. So maybe nerdinessboundaries and my fellow competitors are the only audience for this oddity, but it's been fun getting this out of my brain. Hope you enjoy.

“Does he draw blood?” Your attention goes to Misha’s face as soon as he starts speaking, but you can see a whip-quick twitch just at the bottom of your line of sight when he says the word ‘blood’.

You want so badly to bite your lip and your mouth actually quivers for a moment before you're able to ask him, “Benny or Dean?”

“Dean.”

Of course.

You involuntarily smile when you tell him.

"He draws just enough to have a taste."

* * *

You'd think that Dean Winchester would avoid the blood play with a vampire around, even if they weren't out in the wild with things that could sure enough hunt by the scent of anything else's blood. That was the thing about purgatory though, from what I could gather from Benny; there was so much blood always flowing there that trying to scent anything out was like trying to sniff out oxygen in the air.

* * *

"20.95%" Misha pants out the statistic like a percentage of 21 would've made him come right then and there.

"Did you just Google the earth's air composition?" You know he did, you can see the google results on his phone from where you're kneeling in front of him now. The phone looks ready to slip out of his hand and you can only shake your head because you know that if you didn't have him so turned on  he'd be tweeting that fact right now instead of nudging you with his foot as a comfort/apology/urge for you to continue.

"The details," he's still panting. "I like the details."

As always, you indulge him. "Well I guess the air in purgatory is about 20.95% scented with blood. Might be how Dean got such a kink for it."

"He may have always had that."

"Maybe," you pause to consider your words, "You would know better than I would, I suppose."

"No," Misha shakes his head, but he doesn't elaborate. Instead he presses a toe to your side again, signaling for you to go on as if he's spurring on a horse. You open your mouth to speak and suddenly you have a moment of clarity when you realize that he's been training you to respond to nonverbal signals like this. It occurs to you that you don't know if he's been doing this the whole time--subconsciously training you to follow instructions--or if it's just been the last few times that you've met up with him. Is this a new development? Something you've earned? Something he's had in mind for you from the day you met? You're warm all over, flushed at the thought of any of those hypotheses being true. For a surreal few seconds, you feel a surge of pride that you can't quite pin down and you dive wholeheartedly back into your tale, eager to please him further.

* * *

Benny always got flustered when he talked about blood. Stand in front of him with pumping veins and a pre-drawn serving on offer though and he was the smoothest thing. I think he could freeze a person in place, just in sheer awe of his self-control around all of that temptation. When Cas first started coming to see Benny with me, he'd bring a bottle of basically anything with him and slick himself up with it before Benny even started talking. And, I mean, all that time making due with remainders, his standards for lube were basically: ' _wet, creamy, and doesn't sting or burn my skin off_ '. The way he watched Benny drink that bagged blood though...it was like a synchronized swim, Cas dancing his tongue along his lips as he watched Benny lick up whatever mess of red was left staining his mouth after the first feeding. Anyone paying any kind of attention could see that he'd be slicking himself up with blood soon enough.

I admit that I hadn't given as much thought to Benny beyond our mutual interest. At some point though, I just found myself fascinated by his self-control. I could dip my fingers in a bag of my own blood and fuck myself on them, scratch myself open enough to bleed some more, and he wouldn't even pop a fang. He'd just nod at Cas and ask as calm as ever if he should leave enough aside for Cas to have a go at it later. Meanwhile Cas was the polar opposite as far as self-control. He would inevitably be stretched out in the middle of the room, stark naked as soon as he possibly could be. There was no getting-to-know-you period with that one. From the day I found him to the day I last saw him, any time I ever stepped into a motel room with him, he'd be taking his clothes off before I could even get the lights turned on.

One time I asked him, "What if someone besides Benny was in here waiting for us?" 

And he said, "If they mean us ill-will, then I'm more than capable of disarming someone when I'm unclothed."

Benny snorted--actually snorted, have you ever heard a vampire snort? it sounds ridiculous--and he winked at me and said, "He ain't lying."

So, there was obviously some kind of attraction there from Benny to Cas, at least by the time that Cas was the hedonistic anything-goes ball of fuzz that I'd been bringing with me. I have to think that Dean instilled some intense 'hands off' conditioning in him, or maybe he just always liked to watch, but he never made a move to touch except when it came time to clamp down for his end-of-the-night feeding.

"You two ever gonna touch each other?" Benny asked and Cas raised an eyebrow up at me, smiling because he knew the truth behind my answer of "we like to watch."

I'd heard enough of Benny's Purgatory stories that I wasn't laying a finger on Cas (much less laying a finger _in_ him) without the express blessing of Dean Winchester. The man was scary.

* * *

 _"First we find the angel, we find the angel, _find the angel_."_   Time never made much sense to me in there, but I'da sworn I spent two straight years hearing that man say that. I don't ask for no explanation; a man says 'he's my best friend' and I take his word on it. Don't mean I'm suddenly surprised the first time I see the man curled up on his side and grinding up on his long-lost buddy's leg, weeping like it's his wedding night and someone's getting shipped off to war. I was still back in the tree line that first time and I could hear him whispering his "I missed you"s and "I need you"s from there. Me, I tried to keep it respectful, let them have their time, went to keep watch. There's only so much polite walking away I could do though when it kept going on like that.

Any time we would've had for rest, Dean was shoving his hands inside that filthy fucking trenchcoat. I finally offered to find a stream so I could clean the thing while they went at it, just to kill two birds, you know? I'll tell you, I hadn't seen Dean get defensive like that since the first time I faced off with him. _"No one's touching that coat,"_ he had some hard eyes on him. What would you compare 'em to? Some kind of flat, green rock--no give whatsoever.

Whatever. I'd spent enough time running around with him to know what he meant.

* * *

"Hands off the angel," Cas smiled, toothy and wide, as he stroked a hand down his own thigh for ironic emphasis. He was spread out on the floor, where Benny and I could both look down for an unimpeded view. He gripped his thigh lightly, and then just a bit tighter, and then he sunk his nails in to drag them up until it was too wide to keep his grip. Mindlessly, it seemed, he slipped the same hand between his legs and scooped down to give his balls a gentle squeeze. He remained like that, with them cradled in his hand, and he sighed audibly, like he was at peace with the world. "That sounds like the old Dean."

* * *

Here I was blaming it on where we were, all that time living like an animal, but maybe that was just his nature, huh? He the type to stamp 'property of Dean' on your back and make a claim on ya? 'cause he was all about claiming Cas's ass when I knew him. He'd been climbing on Cas every chance he'd had and when I finally got tired of finding someplace else to be and told him as much, he said "So just fucking stay there, we're not gonna take that long."

He then started in on what sounded like the longest round-robin of handjobs and ass riding I'd ever heard.

It went on so long I had to ask, "Am I supposed to be politely looking away or politely watching?"

Dean just laughed and Cas mumbled something that sounded like "we're not supposed to talk about it." So I kept looking off at rocks and trees while Dean panted his "never gonna leave you"s and "always mine"s and Cas panted out noises instead of words. I started figuring Dean wanted a witness. Especially after we got out, I started wondering...no telling now though. It went on like that, anyway. I'd be resting back on a little boulder or what have you, next I know, Dean would be bending his boy over the damn thing. I was so used to that by that time I'd just ask him, "Really?"

"Best way to make sure you don't accidentally get an eye-full," but Dean wasn't even pretending to be serious, I just had to look out the corner of my eye to see the man's head wobbling around back there. And wasn't any need to turn around to hear all that lapping and licking. I don't know if he's always that loud or if it was just for my benefit. Weren't any of us going to say it out loud, but he was obviously getting off on the public claiming and, since I was the only public he had, I'd had my eyes full. 

It might've been a tease, maybe a claiming thing, or just three men and a kink, but I gotta think that when Dean took a bite that he was testing me.  I tell you I knew it when his teeth broke skin; my eyes were on him before Cas even had a hitch in his breath. Dean was only looking at me out of the corner of his eye, tongue  busy licking the blood away from the bite he'd just taken. Could've been a bite inside the thigh or as deep inside as his teeth could get, anywhere along where he was running his tongue. I couldn't see the bite from there--Dean hadn't taken to spreading Cas out to show him off to me yet--but I could see a fresh bit on his tongue when he pulled back. Even had a red stain on his mouth before he licked it off. Looked like he'd been eating a cherry ice.

* * *

"That sounds delicious," Cas declares dreamily.

* * *

Misha agrees.

"But do you think he was he talking about the ice or the blood?" You hadn't been vague about it on purpose, but now you're curious if he made an assumption either way.

"I think he was talking about that other Cas."

**Author's Note:**

> If you are reading this, then against all odds you not only had interest in this fic but had enough interest to make it to the end.  
> Why in the hell did I write this, of all things? It was a gamble that nobody would see those tags, see that summary, and decide to actually look at the thing. Take a look at my motivation here:  
> http://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/post/135062467270/haelblazer-angrysouffle-spncoldesthits  
> For those people who did decide to take this journey, I wanted your gamble to pay off, so I hope you brave souls enjoyed the ride. Your hits, your comments, your kudos if they come, they may not help me win the competition but they will make me sit back in awe that there was an audience for this fic. So either way, everything's coming up Milhouse.


End file.
